Skipping to Middle Chapters for Graphic Description
By Kat Mandeville



was the night Pittsburgh flooded
with the sky, our dark neighborhood
sewn crisscross, a crucifix of rain.

Topless, I entered the storm
as lightning, as Cassandra making Apollo
thrust for dawn. And you,

a porch-dweller, stayed behind
and watched, sucked a cigarette
mumbling, God only loves you

for your tits, and they're boring anyway,
then came all over the perennials
lining the yard.

*

until grade school years later. I sucked
fireball jawbreakers, my precious jewels
while hanging upside-down on monkey bars.

The boy I hadn't noticed said,
Only one thing you should choke on,
poked in, pulled out the steaming

ruby, poised it on his fingers like a jeweler
winking back. Forgetting me, he slimed it on his
lips, cracked it on his teeth, and swallowed.

*

when Grandmother kissed
my four-year-old mouth, whispered into it
Regard hope with little hands.

Smell like a good fight. Beware the creature
who takes the god out of you—your night-sugar.
Fills your body with his salt. These thieves,

the best of them will find you.
I asked what of the ones wanting respect?
In my ear she laughed. Barely.

Go. Give their tiny minds
what you do not need.
The rest is yours.

We'll welcome you back to the homeland
when all his seed is spent on stony ground.
Bra in your back pocket. His teeth in your mouth.

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